"you know what my # 1 fantasy is? i used to think that one day, just not telling anyone, i could go off to some random place, and i just disappear, like you’ll never see me again."

the tiny monster

There is something about our names and the way we were raised that haunt us and hold us captive within labyrinths of instincts and behavioral patterns. In short, I am going to play with the idea behind the question, What’s in a name?

Timon’s first week at our place

Let us focus on the name, Timon. Timon is short for Tiny Monster which is short for Tiny Monster Calvin&Hobbes. I also decided on the name as a parody since one of my favorite songs is Elton John’s Tiny Dancer. Timon is an orphan adopted from the streets of Alabang. She was a scrawny, two-week old kitten that spied V from afar and followed V all the way to her house. She dictated to us that she wanted to be let in. And we did let her in. That was on June 30, 2012.

Redefining the meaning of snuggling

At my place, she lords over people and lives up to her name. One time while she was walking past my unsuspecting housemate resting on the couch, Timon just lunged at her leg and bit her. Without provocations, without distractions thrown Tmon’s way. After her heinous act, she loped away, and I imagine, with a sick grin on her face.

This funny nuisance

I raised her along with V and housemates, and we have raised a monster, a cuddly, feline, FERAL monster. Every time I see her stretching or slinking in a corner, the song of Silverchair, Freak, plays in my head. That and David Bowie’s Little Wonder.

Big and small monsters

We borrowed a puppy with a sweet name, Princess Samantha (yes, there is someone out there who thinks naming her puppy Princess Samantha is acceptable. I give you the license to shoot her.) We call her Sammy or Sam or Sam-sam. When Timon saw Sam being cuddled by V, she bared her fangs at Sam and hissed and threatened Sam with her stare. Sam was oblivious to Timon’s menacing behavior, but we were alarmed. We were like parents who just witnessed the beginning of the end of their child’s access to acceptance during play dates and at playgrounds.

This is Sam

My leg is a map of scratches and wounds. You can identify Timon’s height based on the scars on my legs. She used to mark my ankle area with her claws and fangs. Now I have wounds inches away from my knees.

But at this rate, she is sweetest in my presence. For some sick reason, she listens to me the most.

I have come to accept the reality after being told several times that she is like me — all claws, all fangs out, all anger lashed out at others.

But when she cuddles and expresses warmth, it is rare and brightly stellar, a rare comet drop.